Wounds of the Scimitar
by Jessica Simpson-Bourget
Summary: An additional scene to wrap up Knights of the Scimitar. It's still open-ended but provides a little more context for what happened in the episode. Thanks for reading- reviews are appreciated!


Exhausted, and frankly, past caring, Diane gave up on Carla and let her have her way with Lance. Her head was still spinning from Sam's kiss, and she couldn't deal with the sideshow antics. What did it mean? Was it an act of love or an act of aggression? She had begged him for answers before, but now was afraid to ask. She couldn't bear another disappointment. His words that evening were more vicious than ever, and despite the kiss, it felt as though he really meant them. He disappeared into his office once again, as he'd done so many times over the past few months.

She went back to work, heedlessly tucking soggy paper cocktail napkins into empty lipstick-stained glasses and watching friends, couples and one night stands in the making exit the bar, some staggering, some laughing… all of them happier than she was at that moment. Woody left with Norm and Cliff, Carla went home to her kids, and Diane was struck with sudden realization that she had no one- not a soul in this world to turn to- even Frasier had moved on. She wasn't one for bottling up her emotions, and at this point she'd stuffed so many bad thoughts and hard, gnawing feelings down deep into her psyche that she felt like she might implode, as she did not so very long ago.

Thoughts of her time at Goldenbrook overtook her, and she fought back the pinpricks of fresh tears. She was alone then, as she was now. Not even her mother cared enough to visit. What was it about her that drove everyone away? Her self-recrimination took her to an even darker place. She tried so hard to stay positive, but nevertheless, found herself spiraling downward into the abyss deeper and more often these days.

She collected the last of the glasses and placed them gently into the sink, careful not to make too much noise, lest Sam emerge from his office and confirm her suspicions. His silence cut two ways—it hurt terribly, but it also delayed what she felt was the inevitable and unimaginable pain of a true ending. She preferred to suffer in silence.

Sam stewed in his office, pacing the triangle between the desk, the couch and the door, intermittently sitting down to rub his head. It was pounding with too many thoughts. His pride wouldn't allow him to be honest with her. His defenses forced him to hide from her. His gut told him to run to her and hold her tight.

She was maddening. Enough to drive a man to drink, and was he ever tempted at that moment. How could she bring that guy in here and parade him around like that? Even if she didn't bring him in here and parade him around, how could she even consider going away with him? Sure she had every right to, but still... what about him?

He had pushed her away with both hands since the proposal disaster. He'd been downright cruel about it too, as cruel as she was in rejecting him. Yes, she had explained her reasons and they actually made sense, but it wasn't about revenge at this point. To tell the truth, she scared the hell out of him, and he didn't know how else to deal with her.

She held all the cards, just as she had from the moment she walked into this place. She had to know the power she held over him, and it filled him with panic. She could turn him inside out with a raised eyebrow or a knowing grin, and he didn't think he could take it anymore. He'd struggled with his addictions for so long, and now it seemed he'd transferred his obsession to her. Better to go cold turkey than become its slave.

He'd kissed her. At first he'd done it just to show that Lance kid who was boss. He had some nerve turning up here, trying to sweep Diane off her feet with his flowers and youth and handsome. That little punk. He hated him for falling so hard for Diane, and for reminding him once more that she had a whole world of options out there for love. Of course she did—she was Diane, for crying out loud. The perfect girl. Who wouldn't want her?

That kiss reminded him just how much he wanted her. It took every ounce of his already imperiled self-restraint to walk away from her after that. All he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her the hell out of that bar, away from everything and everybody, and just be with her. To pour out his heart to her once and for all- tell her that she was now and always would be the only one for him. To give her everything she deserved and more. To be the man she deserved.

He'd never been truly great at much in his life. His own parents couldn't praise him even as a little boy, and he'd always lived in the shadow of superbrother. He'd blown his shot at fame and fortune, and now it seemed he was on the road to another failure- perhaps the biggest yet. Only now he wasn't sure if the failure was losing her or needing her too much. He just wished she'd go home already so he didn't have to face it.

He heard the light click of her heels pass the office door, and his heart ached to go to her. He held his breath and listened and listened until all was silence. She must have gone, he thought. He felt his stomach turn, wondering if he'd ever see her again, as he did every time she went. He hurried to the office door and turned the knob, setting off a flurry of activity over by the piano.

Hearing the click of the latch, Diane jumped to her feet, knocking over a chair in the process. Her hands flew to her eyes as she moved quickly over to the bar to grab her purse and coat. She couldn't let him see her face. He'd know she was upset and then a conversation would ensue.

Blindly pulling her coat from its position under the bar, she knocked over a glass filled with red stirrers and it fell with a sickening crash to the floor. In a panic, she reached for the shards of glass, wanting nothing more than to make the whole mess go away and to disappear before a syllable escaped his lips.

Her shoulders heaving with suppressed tears, she looked down at her blood red fingertips, raw with scores of tiny razor cuts. She sat there for a moment, choking back a cry while trying desperately to catch her next breath. She needed to breathe. She needed to escape and get out on the street and breathe cold air. And then she needed to run. She was paralyzed.

He couldn't see her behind the bar and was afraid to approach. "I'll get the broom," was all he could muster, as he crossed toward the closet beneath the stairs. He could hear her gasp for breath and knew this would take more than a broom to set right. He couldn't do it. If he looked at her, it would be back down the rabbit hole for him. He quickly walked over and handed her the broom and dustpan, careful not to make even the slightest eye contact.

She reached out with one hand to take the broom, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw red. A bloody handprint sliding down the yellow broom handle. He turned and saw her cowering, hiding her face, shaking with violent, stifled sobs. She seemed so small in that moment. She needed him.

In an instant he was upon her. Without another thought, he scooped her up and carried her to the sink, where he set her down and forced her hands under the running water. He couldn't tell how badly she was hurt, but he wanted to be sure to get the glass out before he cleaned her wounds.

She was shivering now, in pain and fear, but grateful for the distraction of the first aid. Teeth chattering, she watched him examine her hands, millimeter by millimeter, his strong, sure fingers extracting every visible sliver before soaping and rinsing her cuts. She watched him care for her. He grabbed a clean white towel from the pile and wrapped both of her hands in it, applying pressure to the little lacerations, focusing on the red stains seeping into the terry cloth, and avoiding her eyes. For a few moments they listened to each other breathe in shallow, tentative gasps.

Satisfied that he'd stopped the bleeding, he reached below the bar for the first aid kit and took out the gauze and tape. Both were beginning to feel the tension of their proximity. "It's okay," she whispered, "I can do this."

He stepped back and let her wrap her left hand, cutting her some tape to finish the job. She did the same for her right as he watched her in pained amazement. As delicate as she was, she was tough.

The task completed, she turned away from him to grab the broom and finish the clean-up. Quickly sweeping the glass, she turned to dump it in the wastebasket and forced a small smile. "I never should have tried to… I don't know what I was thinking," she stammered, "I'm sorry. Thanks for the help. I'm gonna go now." She gingerly slid her arms into her coat and grabbed her purse.

"Diane."

She had to get out of there before she made a fool of herself yet again. Her face flushed, red and hot, she walked briskly toward the door.

"Goodnight, Sam," her voice cheerful and shaking. "Please let me go," she thought.

He ran from behind the bar and caught her sleeve, turning her to face him. He could see the fear in her eyes, and realized he was the cause.

"Diane… I just… wanted to tell you I'm sorry… for earlier tonight. What I did."

"That's okay, Sam. I know you didn't mean it."

She forced a smile and her eyes darted toward the door. She didn't want to hear any more. She pulled away and reached for the handle.

"Stop… Diane…"

"Oh God, here it comes," she thought, her heart sinking.

"I didn't mean it in that way… the kiss… I shouldn't have done that to you. It was disrespectful, and I was a real jerk to pull something like that."

Her periwinkle eyes were wide and glistened with unshed tears.

"How did you mean it, Sam?"

Her lips were slightly swollen and parted and it was driving him crazy.

"I meant…"

He could feel her breath on his lips as he leaned in to place a gentle kiss on the mouth that so beguiled him in every way. Her lips were warm and inviting, but he stepped back to let the moment be what he intended. Their eyes met in wonderment and they stood there for a few seconds more, unable to look away.

He felt awash with a sense of peace and smiled to himself. He _could_ control himself with her. It was not some mindless addiction, but his choice. He would always choose her. But that would keep. That _could_ keep for another day. Right now, they both had wounds that needed healing.

She smiled tentatively, uncertain of his meaning, but knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was not the end. She was suddenly exhausted, but serene. It had been a long time since she'd felt such tranquility. Despite her wounds, she felt whole, connected.

He fearlessly opened the door for her and watched her move up the steps into the cool Boston night.


End file.
